


A Lot Like Winning

by birt



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birt/pseuds/birt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke gets drunk at a party and ends up crashing in Bellamy's room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lot Like Winning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential sexual assault trigger warning! just a small paragraph in the middle. it's quickly debunked though.

She doesn’t intend on getting drunk. Hell, she doesn’t even intend on going to the party.

(“Why can’t you just call me when you’re ready to leave?” Clarke groaned heavily, highlighter squeaking across the page of her anatomy textbook.

“ _Because_ ,” Raven shimmied into a pair of skin-tight jeans before turning to smile – somewhat mischievously, Clarke noted absently – at herself in the mirror, “I need someone to hold me back when Jasper decides to play _Hotline Bling_ for the four hundredth time.“)

The evening starts off innocently enough. For Clarke, at least. Raven, on the other hand, doesn’t waste any time in downing a series of shots and dragging her friend through the crowd toward a group of dancing girls. Thirty minutes later the brunette is still going strong, albeit a tad buzzed. Raven slips out of her jacket then, fanning her newly exposed skin and yelling – directly into Clarke’s ear – about how _fucking_ hot it is. Clarke responds with a heavy roll of her eyes and is rewarded with a lopsided, one-armed hug and a fit of giggles that dissolve into the crook of her neck.

And then Finn shows up. It happens so fast. She barely remembers it now. Words are shared, punches are thrown.

(Clarke was mortified, gawking as Raven shook her right hand in the air and inhaled heavily through clenched teeth.

“That was insane,” Clarke murmured, inspecting her friends knuckles carefully.

“It needed to be done,” she shrugged, giving Clarke’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “And now you need a drink.”)

She’s not sure how many drinks she throws back. She loses count sometime after Monty and Jasper banish her (“If Peach taunts one more time…”) from the rousing _Super Smash Bros_ battle. All she knows is that her body feels suspiciously light – like she’s floating on a cloud, traipsing through a field of dandelions, or something equally ridiculous sounding – and she’s fucking _starving_. Octavia finds her an hour later, head cocked to the side and liquid spilling from her cup as she scowls at a picture on the kitchen fridge.

(Octavia straightened the nearly empty cup, crystalline laugh filling the room and breaking the blonde out of her trance. “You alright, Clarke?”

Clarke blinked a few times, shaking her head – forcibly pulling herself back into reality – and muttering an apology about the mess before angling her body slightly toward the other girl. “He’s not here, is he?”

“Who?”

“ _Bellamy_ ,” she whispered hotly, jabbing a finger at the picture on the fridge as the scowl returned.

“No,” Octavia replied slowly, biting her lip to keep her smile at bay, “he’s out with Miller. Won’t be back until Sunday. Something about not wanting to deal with drunken college freshmen.”

“Good. I wasn’t looking forward to his unnecessary commentary,” she retorted, rolling her eyes and lowering her voice an octave – a sad attempt at mimicking the older Blake’s gravelly tone – before speaking again. “ _I always knew you were a lightweight, Princess_.”)

She nearly falls flat on her ass while walking out of the kitchen, spilling the remains of her drink all over her jeans, and is unceremoniously dumped in Bellamy’s empty room (“His affliction isn’t contagious, is it?”) to sleep it off. An hour later, sleep is still evading her. But she’s tired. Too tired to react to the sound of the door opening and the small sliver of light that trickles in from the hallway. It’s probably just Octavia checking in on her. And, as thankful as she is for the hospitality, she’s really not in any state to talk right now. So, naturally, when the covers lift up at one side and the bed shifts beneath her, she rolls over onto her side and stares petulantly at the wall.

“Octavia, I’m not really in the mood.”

“What the fuck?”

She cringes at the volume, and opens her mouth – ready to snap some sarcastic remark at Octavia about her drunkenness not having any effect on her hearing ability – but it takes a moment for her tongue to catch up with her brain. And it takes yet another moment for her brain to register that the voice she’s just heard is definitely _not_ Octavia. So, ok, maybe her hearing ability has been compromised. But that’s not the point. The point is that someone has just slipped into bed with her. Someone with a distinctly male voice. Her mouth drops open, sputtering briefly before she lets out an ear-piercing scream.

“ _What the fuck_!?”

She’s in a sitting position mere seconds later, backpedaling in a desperate attempt to put space between herself and the voice. She’s so desperate, in fact, that she smashes the back of her head against the wall behind her. The pain is blinding, her vision blurring in the already darkened room, and when she feels the bed shift again – the other occupant of the room edging closer – she instinctively balls her hand into a fist and shoots it into the darkness. Miraculously, it reaches its intended target and she lets out a triumphant yell before launching herself across the bed. She’s on him in an instant, straddling his hips and slapping at his head and upper body. He puts his arms up in protest, shouting something but she can't hear it. She can’t hear anything over the combination of her heavy breathing, pounding heart, and chaotic inner monologue. She doesn’t let up.

And then, suddenly, she’s flipped over on her back, her wrists captured and pinned above her head. She’s squirming beneath her assailant, hissing something unintelligible as she thrashes her head back and forth.

“Would you just quit if for one second? I’m not-“

“ _Bellamy_?” she gasps, her eyes growing impossibly wide. She stops squirming instantly, cheeks burning fiercely at the realization that she’s squished beneath him wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a tiny pair of underwear. An awkward silence falls over the room, their chests heaving in synchronization.

“Yeah, Princess, it’s me,” he’s laughing now, his breath warm on the side of her face. “Are you done with _The Exorcist_ routine? Or should I go find Father Merrin?”

“Shut up,” she groans, shifting awkwardly and pushing feebly at his bared chest once he finally releases her wrists. He’s still laughing when he rolls off of her, and the fingers brushing faintly against her ribcage cause her to inhale sharply as her entire body practically bursts into flames. Her hand shoots out for the blanket – determined to cover her body and prevent it from committing anymore acts of treachery – and she’s in the process of disappearing beneath the heavy fabric when it’s yanked away from her entirely.

She pulls on the blanket. He pulls back. It turns into a game of tug of war and, in her drunken and tired state, she’s completely winded and gasping for air five minutes later. To the point that her words come out in what can only be described as a breathy groan. “Just give it to me, Bellamy.”

She wants to die. She doesn’t care how, so long as it happens right here and now.

“The _blanket_ ,” she adds belatedly, mentally smacking herself. “Just give me the blanket.”

“It’s _my_ blanket,” he snaps, and she’s torn between being grateful that he’s ignored her unintentional innuendo or annoyed that he’s being such an asshole. “Last I checked _you_ were the one who decided to get drunk and pass out in _my_ bed.”

Right. She’s annoyed.

“Only because Octavia said you wouldn’t be here!” she shouts back, crossing her arms over her chest and jutting out her lower lip in protest. “And I’m not that drunk!”

“Not that drunk?” he’s matching her volume now, and she’s gritting her teeth as she imagines shoving a cracker down his stupid parroting throat. “And why wouldn’t I-“

She’s not listening anymore, simultaneously traumatized and aroused by visions of Bellamy and cages and feather boas. It’s legitimately the strangest thought that’s ever crossed her mind and, rightly so, she can’t be held responsible for the incredibly loud bark of laughter that emits from her throat. Or the bout of giggles that follows shortly after.

“You’re right, this seems like incredibly normal behaviour.”

Her laughter cuts off abruptly, quiet sinking over the room. The amount of sarcasm he can inject into a single sentence is appalling. Although, truthfully, not all that surprising. It’s Bellamy’s trademark, after all. Instant mood killer: the fast-acting formula for stronger, longer silence; neutralizes threats in as little as fifteen seconds. He’s rolling onto his side to face her now, the bed creaking slightly in objection, and she blinks a few times, uncomfortable under his scrutiny, before glaring stubbornly at the ceiling. She can just imagine the smug look on his face, that damn effortless smirk that taunts her endlessly. He wants her to look at him, wants her to give in. She only stares at the ceiling with more determination, clenching her jaw as her eyes narrow with laser precision.

It lasts all of ten seconds.

There are tiny glow in the dark stars stuck to the surface and, despite being completely pissed off at him, the image of a younger, softer Bellamy sticking them to the ceiling brings a small smile to her lips. She chances a glance at him out of the corner of her eye and she can see that he’s smiling now too, white teeth gleaming back at her.

“Fine,” she huffs, rolling over to face him, deliberately focusing on a spot just above his shoulder. “So, I’m a little drunk. I know that gene… generos… playing _nice_ isn’t really your thing, but maybe, just maybe, you could cut me a little slack here?”

He snorts in response, and she mentally berates herself for thinking that it’s cute. He falls silent again and they just lay there wordlessly for what seems like hours. She observes him tentatively, her gaze sweeping over his face – the dusting of freckles across his nose, the small scar above his lip, the sharp line of his jaw – before lowering it to stare at his collar bone, swallowing to relieve the sudden dryness in her throat. She can feel his eyes on her too, and she can feel the blush seeping into her skin as she wonders, idly, how he manages to be both the Beauty _and_ the Beast. It’s not fair. It really isn’t.

Her eyes are starting to feel heavy, Bellamy’s still form floating in and out of view with each flutter of her eyelids. She realizes that his breathing has evened out and, for a moment, she’s convinced that he’s fallen asleep. She’s overcome with the sudden urge to see him in a peaceful state; the closest she’ll ever get to the younger, softer Bellamy she’d envisioned earlier. Her gaze flickers upward, her breath catching in the back of her throat at the sight of his brown eyes staring unabashedly back at her. The voice inside her head screams at her to break contact, but she can’t tear herself away; like he’s a car crashed on the highway, a house sent up in flames. He raises an eyebrow slightly and it feels vaguely like a challenge. She lifts her chin higher in response, eyes still locked firmly with his. After a night of losses, she’s determined to win this one last battle.

She feels the blanket fall over her moments later, his earthy aroma enveloping her senses as she drifts out of consciousness.

She’s not sure who broke contact first, but this feels a lot like winning.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been debating whether or not to post it for the past two weeks. It's unedited, so I apologize for any glaring mistakes. The fact that the majority of it was written after 2am probably won't help that situation. I feel like it could be a stand alone fic. But there are some things that could be added if people are interested? So... yeah... my first serious attempt at fanfic. Terrifying. Let me know how I did??
> 
> Edit: So, yep, adding a second chapter. Soon. Thank you for the response!!


End file.
